


Secret Keeper

by Glitched_Fox



Series: 2017 BATIM Fics Upload [3]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insanity, Not Really Character Death, Rituals, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:07:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitched_Fox/pseuds/Glitched_Fox
Summary: Joey’s been acting suspicious lately, but he’s gone too far. Norman’s ready to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.OR: Norman gets a little too into character.---My take on how Norman Polk became the creature we meet in-game. Inspired by the theories/headcanons of tumblr user adobe-outdesign.(Originally posted on October 27, 2017.)





	Secret Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my personal favorites out of these uploads! The first section's writing is a bit rough but... yeah. I still stand by this theory.

It wasn’t unusual for the employees to stay at the studio overnight. For example: Wally could be found passed out in the janitor’s closet on Fridays, Sammy would usually fall asleep while playing back the band recordings at least once or twice a week, and it was debatable if Joey ever left. Back when Henry worked as an animator, he would be found sleeping at his desk most mornings.

Therefore, no one questioned it when Norman stayed in his booth far past closing, watching the cartoons and checking that it all played correctly. Aside from Joey and Norman, Sammy was the last one to clock out that day. On his way out, he walked up to Norman’s booth.

The musician tapped the other on the shoulder. Seemingly breaking out of a trance-like state, the projectionist turned to Sammy. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I was just wondering if you were gonna go home,” Sammy said. “It’s winter, so the weather’s only gonna get worse. You leaving or not?”

Norman shook his head, reaching for a pair of film reels leaning against the wall. He flicked off the projector, taking out the film reels currently loaded in to it and replacing them with the ones he had grabbed. Sammy shook his head and sighed, turning to leave. As he walked down the stairs, the projector turned on, the animation playing against the wall.

Even once he ran out of cartoons to play, Norman just rewatched them. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, noting that it was about 3:00 in the morning. Perfect. He got up, stretching as he began his descent down the stairs.

The employee rubbed his shoulder as he stepped up to Joey’s office door. Something was seeping out from under Joey’s door. Was that ink? Norman took a step back, realizing that there was some red in that black. While attempting not to gag, he continued to examine the door. There was a strange black glow coming from behind it. There was also the sound of someone chanting in a language Norman didn’t understand.

The projectionist knew that Joey had been acting suspicious, but this? This was just too much.

Leaning forward and trying not to touch the blood-ink, Norman knocked on the door. “Joey?” he called out, but got no response. He knocked again, but the sound was drowned out by laughter on the other side of the door.

Steeling his resolve, Norman’s hand fell to the door handle. He took a deep breath as he turned the doorknob, the door opening with a horrible creaking noise. His senses were immediately bombarded by everything in the office.

For starters, the was an upside-down pentagram drawn on the floor in ink, a candle at each point. The pentagram glowed back. Joey was kneeling over a figure laying on the symbol, laughing in between chants.

And the smell… the room reeked of ink and blood, to the point where Norman could practically taste it. “Joey, what the heck are you doing?” he yelled, coughing. Joey sat up and looked at the other, a whimsical grin spread across his face and a maniacal look in his eyes.

The employee took a look at the figure sprawled across the pentagram. Whoever it was was unconscious, ropes binding their limbs. Their body was inky and malformed. Norman could make out the outline of a shirt under the ink, but the figure was wearing obvious overalls that the projectionist immediately recognized as Boris’s. He covered his mouth with his hands as Joey began laughing again, standing up.

“Oh, Norman…” he drawled, limping over to the said person. His wheelchair was discarded off in the side of the room. He hopped on one foot, dragging his misshapen one in his erratic walk. “You always were very bright.”

“Joey, I-I don’t think you should be doing this,” Norman stuttered nervously. “This is something that shouldn’t be messed with.”

“What do you mean? This?” Joey said in a airy, not-caring voice, spreading his arms and motioning to the room. “I think it’s _beautiful!_ ”

Norman took a step back, glancing over his shoulder. The door was still open. Maybe he could just-  
Before he could do anything, the door slammed shut and a wood plank appeared, blocking it. How did that happen? The employee blinked, swiveling his head to look at his boss. 

But Joey was gone. The figure on the pentagram, however, was still there. And it was moving. It slowly pushed itself to it’s feet, its inky form resembling that of a human as it stood. The creature blinked best it could, its visible eyes almost glowing. It tilted its head, and a chill ran down Norman’s spine. Not even knowing what was happening, the projectionist pressed himself against the wall.

_“Nor… Norma- Norman. Norman. Norman!”_

\------

Norman winced as he came to, the brightness of the light blinding him. He took a moment to regain his senses and examine his situation. The first thing he realized was that he was in incredible pain. His arms were bound to his sides, and his legs were tied together. On top of that, he was roped to a table, so he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He tried to speak, but no words came. He couldn’t move his head either, being forced to stare straight ahead. He hated having limited vision.

After a few moments, Joey Drew wobbled into view, supporting himself on a cane. “Good to see you’re awake, my dear projectionist.” Something about the way he said it gave Norman a bad feeling. Joey continued, “Now, what to do with you…”

He dragged himself off to the side, then returned in Norman’s vision, holding a book. “Let’s see… Certainly not the little demon himself, you aren’t important enough for that. Boris, perhaps? My last attempt with that one didn’t go so well…” He tapped his chin with his pen as he thought.

The animation director’s eyes suddenly lit up, and Norman’s feeling of dread grew. “What if,” Joey started excitedly, flipping through his book, “we didn’t make you into a cartoon? You watch those guys objectively more than you relate to them, anyway. 

But a creature that could willingly play whatever I asked it to, all while providing information on the creation process or just making witty commentary- what could be sillier than that?”

Joey broke off laughing, all while the victim just stared in horror, unable to do anything else. “Then we could truly say those famous words! Do you remember them, Norman?” he glanced up at the aforementioned man, before frowning slightly. “Oh right, you can’t talk yet. No matter! I can say them.”

A wide grin spreading across his face once more, Joey set down the book next to Norman and lifted his arms. “Presented in Sillyvision!”

And with those words, the projectionist blacked out again.

\------

The next time Norman woke up, he wasn’t sure where he was. His vision was the first thing to return to him. It was limited like before, but he discovered he could move his head. He did so in an attempt to take stock of the area he was in. It seemed to be one of the viewing rooms of the studio. The projector on the desk was off.

Strange. The edges of the projectionist’s vision were pitch black, but what he could actually see was nearly blinding him with light. Realizing he was standing up, he attempted to take a step forward…

...and promptly fell forward. He tried to catch himself, but was unable to, his limbs flailing around uselessly. He could feel something crack, and hissed in pain.

Speaking of which, Norman couldn’t really feel anything in his head. He knew it was there, but he just felt… numb. Regaining control of his body, he pushed himself into something close to a sitting position, raising his hands into his sight.

The man flexed his clawed fingers, staring at the ink covering his hands. The light he was seeing flickered as he grew more distressed. He tried to look at himself, but couldn’t. His vision didn’t go that far, his head to heavy to move that much. Oh yeah, his head. He reached up, attempting to feel his head.

It was then he realized that he had lost all sense of touch, not able to feel flesh or metal or anything under his fingers. As he continued to feel around, however, the shape quickly became familiar. The rectangular shape, the grooves on top of his “head,” even the flickering light.

It was a projector. The employee had held one far too many times to not recognize it. He tried to scream, to call out for help, to curse Joey. But he couldn’t hear any sound; couldn’t feel his vocal chords vibrating in his throat. He hands dropped to his chest, and he could feel something there.

Something that definitely felt like a speaker. As he touched the speaker, he realized it was vibrating. Noise must be coming through it, then. He couldn’t hear it, though.

Then again, a projector would have no need to hear.

The projectionist continued to scream pointlessly. His thoughts were hazy. His memories were fading.

He couldn’t stay like this. He had a family to get back to. Right? He had… he had a kid. Maybe. And a wife. Most likely. Why was he here? He must’ve worked at… wherever this was. Someone had done something to him to make him this. He had been…

What had he been?

Who had he been?

He couldn’t remember his own name.

\------

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in the corner of that room, just screaming even though he couldn’t hear himself. He had no name, no emotions, no family, no reason for anything. At least, none that he could remember.

Eventually, the door to the room he was in opened, and light flooded the room. His screeches grew louder as his vision faded. The door slammed shut, and his screams cut off suddenly. The vibrations of his speaker changed to a lighter, less-screechy sound. Like a whir.

A curious whirring came from his speaker as he looked up. Yes, that sounded right. A person rolled into view. They were in some kind of wheelchair, and carried a pen and notebook. He decided the other was a male.

The man with the pen seemed to be saying something, but he couldn’t hear it. He wasn’t really paying attention, but eventually a notebook and pen were shoved into his hands. A spark of electricity ran down his wires as he remembered how to read and write. He opened the notebook to the first page.

‘You are the Projectionist,’ the book read. ‘I am Joey Drew. You are my creation. You were made to play cartoons for everyone to see. Isn’t that nice?’

The Projectionist. So that was his name, huh? Alrighty. He turned the page. Now the words and phrases got longer, more complicated. He read them, and knew how the letters and words sounded, but didn’t know what they meant.

When the Projectionist looked up, Joey was now sitting in front of him, holding film reels in his lap. The former screeched in surprise, flinging the pen and notebook away.

There was a brief struggle between the two. The Projectionist was strong, yes, but he hadn't quite figured out how to control his large, inky movements yet.

A click sounded as Joey successfully latched the film reels into place. The Projectionist’s vision suddenly disappeared, replaced with the grinning faces of Bendy and Boris as they chased each other. He swiveled his head around, a low whine coming from his speaker as he tried to see anything besides the cartoon.

He slowly stopped moving and whining, staring at the cartoon. His speaker was vibrating to indicate noise from the reels. Too bad the Projectionist couldn’t hear it. He became lost in the animation, ignoring everything else. He didn’t even feel it when Joey shoved him as an experiment.

Blackness filled the Projectionist’s vision as the cartoon came to the end. Suddenly aware again, he started screeching, reaching up and attempting to yank the film reels out of his head.

They came out pretty easily, and Joey left after a minute longer. The Projectionist huddled in the corner once more, screaming quietly. He didn’t want the reels to go in again. He didn’t like being so defenseless.

\------

Joey came in a few more times after that. Maybe it was every day, or maybe it was once a week, or something else. The Projectionist had no sense of time. But every interaction went roughly the same.

Joey would roll himself in, the door opening and light blinding the Projectionist for a moment. The latter learned to resent Joey’s presence. Joey would then go over to the Projectionist, and attempt to click the film reels into place.

The ink creature had gotten used to this, however. He now had full control over his body- most of the time, at least. Every time Joey attempted to play the reels, the Projectionist would fight back. One time a film reel got embedded in his shoulder as a result of the struggle.

There came a time where Joey never came back. The Projectionist didn’t mind. He spent his time fiddling with the single projector sitting in the middle of the room. He played cartoons on it with the reels left behind by Joey. He would sometimes switch out the reels in the middle of a cartoon, trying to see how smooth he could make the transition. He would occasionally disconnect the projector, pick it up, put it down somewhere else, pick it up again, move it back where it was, and reconnect it. He wasn’t sure why it did this; it just felt right.

One fateful day, however, the projector failed to work. Its light suddenly flickered off in the middle of a cartoon, the reels stopping their spinning and the sound cutting out. The Projectionist let out a static-y whine, hands running over the wires and lens of the projector as he attempted to fix it. Electricity crackled around his wires as his clicked in thought. Nothing seemed to happen. He whined, draping himself over the broken projector.

His gaze turned to the door, and he slowly got up, walking toward it. He reached for the doorknob, but the door was locked. No matter. He took a step back, then flung himself at the door, screeching.

The wooden door was no match for the Projectionist’s strength, and shattered. Now free, the ink creature gazed around. His light flickered in amazement as he wandered through the halls. Abandoned sketches rested on the desks, and ink stained the walls. The Projectionist eventually found some stairs and trudged down them.

The new floor was even more familiar than the previous one. Cold electricity ran through his wires as he attempted to remember.

The path opened up into a large room, with chairs and instruments scattered around it. Whirring, he looked up, light growing slightly brighter as it fell on the projectionist’s booth.

Memories flickered through his mind, but he couldn’t hold on to any of them. He screeched, turning and running out of the room. Through pure determination, he found some more stairs and started down them.

\------

The inky halls of Level 14 grew comfortable. The Projectionist didn’t like leaving his maze. There were horrors up the stairs. The little ink creatures, even more deformed than himself, trying to drag him into the cold, dark puddle. The Ink Demon was up there, and everyone knew to Beware the Ink Demon. Level 14 was part of the Angel’s domain. The Projectionist didn’t like the Angel much, but she left him alone and that was all he could ask.

He set up projectors every now and then, just because it felt right. He needed those cartoons. They were his only source of entertainment in this inky abyss. He would say he loved them, but he didn’t know what love was.

He would stand next to those projectors, staring at the animation playing on the wall. It wasn’t like there was anything better to do down here. But heaven help you if you crossed into his light.

He didn’t like being around other creatures. And if he saw something moving in his light…

His speaker emitted a horrible screech as he lunged forward at the warped cartoon. His clawed hands reached out and he grabbed the other, tearing into to shreds, scattering its inky organs across the floor. He dropped the limb remains of a body, stamping on it just to make sure it was completely and fully dead.

The rush of excitement while killing a creature, and the little twinge of guilt afterward were the only feelings he had felt in a long time.

The Projectionist craved it.


End file.
